


Of Phone Calls and Last Words

by a_fandom_affliction



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'm Bad At Tagging, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, sorry about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_fandom_affliction/pseuds/a_fandom_affliction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Out of all the people on this dreadful Earth, out of all the people I have ever seen, of course it is you. It has always been you. You know that, correct?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Phone Calls and Last Words

 

The sun scoffed down in an almost teasing way as Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, lay dying in a grimy alleyway. The blood that coated his hands from the gaping wound in his side made it hard for him to use his phone, but he somehow managed to dial John's number.

 

Sherlock knew that there wasn't enough time to call an ambulance. He knew that alerting John of his predicament would only make things worse for the shorter man. He knew that he was going to die, and that it would be happening very soon.

 

John answered the phone on the second ring. "Sherlock. The case, how's it going?"

 

"Fine enough, John. It's going very well. How are you?" Sherlock expertly kept the pain and sadness from leaking into his voice. This was to be his last conversation with John. He didn't want to ruin it with crying.

 

"I'm splendid, actually. Mrs. Hudson stopped by and we made shepherd's pie for supper." Sherlock could almost see John through the phone. He'd be reading the paper, around now. He could picture John in his mind, sitting in that ugly armchair, feet propped up, phone in hand. He could smell the tea that'd be balanced on John's lap.

 

"That's my favorite, you know." Sherlock smiled slightly, despite the pain of his wound.

 

"I know. That's why we made it, dear." There was a shuffling sound, and Sherlock changed his mental image to show John standing up. Perhaps he was stretching.

 

"Thank you. You both spoil me." Sherlock eased out a laugh and leaned back to prop himself against the alley wall.

 

"I am aware, Sherlock." John snorted, and Sherlock made out the faint sound of footsteps.

 

"John. Listen." This was it. This was his last talk with John. Sherlock took a breath and let it out, let all the shakiness and uncertainty and fear whoosh out of him like wind from a punctured bag. That was what he was, wasn't it? Punctured.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. You know that, don't you? It comes with the work. The little things, such as the cleanliness of a ring, the minuscule difference in the blood lividity of two people who died at the same place at the same time in the same way- It is all important, John."

 

"Yes, I know. What're you getting at?" John had walked into the kitchen, Sherlock surmised. He heard the opening and closing of the refrigerator.

 

"You have little things, as well. I very much think that the most important things about you are the tiniest of expressions that cross your face at any given time, be it a face of sadness, joy, anger, or boredom. The little things about you are so very interesting." Sherlock winced and pressed his free hand harder against the wound. He could feel the slippery insides of himself; he could feel his own blood running over his fingers in a never-ending stream of life.

 

"I-" John started to speak, but Sherlock butted in.

 

"No, John. Listen. We can't command our love to do as we wish, whenever we wish. It can't attach to someone we pick and choose, like a game of Apple from a long-ago childhood. Out of all the people on this dreadful Earth, out of all the people I have ever seen, of course it is you. It has always been you. You know that, correct?"

 

"Yes of course, Sherlock. I understand. What's happened? Why are you saying this now?" Sherlock heard the panic growing in John's voice. He heard the desperation to know what was happening. Sherlock heard this, and didn't tell him.

 

"I love you, John, alright? More than I could have thought possible for someone like me. It is so odd. I used to think love a detriment." Sherlock laughed, and it was a wheezing laugh, full of pain. It was the laugh of a dying man.

 

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you? What's wrong? I'm phoning Lestrade-"

 

"No. John, don't. T-There isn't enough time." Sherlock closed his eyes. There wasn't any reason for leaving them open. "I just want to say that I- I love… I… you…" Sherlock coughed harshly, his entire body shaking from the force of them. The pain in his side increased to an unbearable level.

 

"Sherlock, damn you!" John yelled as the phone fell from Sherlock's hand. "Damn you to hell, Sherlock Holmes, I could have _been there_! I could have _seen you_!"

 

Sherlock shook his head even though John couldn't see, and fumbled through his pocket for his wallet. He removed his hand from his side with a groan and clumsily pulled a ratty photograph from the confines of the worn leather.

 

He gripped the picture tightly, struggling to lay his clenched hand on his chest. He let his head fall back against the dirty bricks of the alley wall. Was this how he was going to die?

 

"Sherlock- Sherlock, _please_. Please, I- I- Don't do this," Sherlock could hear John running. He'd be on the street, then. He heard the sounds of traffic and people. The sounds of life, Moriarty had once called them.

 

Sherlock let out a breath, and fell still.

 

"Sherlock. _Sherlock_!"


End file.
